


In Vitro Existentia

by DreamingAngelWolf



Series: When We Want Power [1]
Category: Kings
Genre: Aftermath, Exile, F/M, IVF, Imprisonment, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingAngelWolf/pseuds/DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack and Lucinda have been imprisoned within the walls of the palace with an ultimatum of sorts looming over their heads. Jack, bitter and frustrated, feels his very existence is becoming false and artificial. If there's a solution to his predicament, he'll gladly take it, but as the world continues without him it seems all he can do is sit and watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vitro Existentia

**Author's Note:**

> My first Kings fic! I watched the series in about three days, and was captivated by Jack Benjamin (goddamn whoever decided to cancel that series!). I know a lot of other fics have done the whole 'Jack-in-Exile' thing, but I had to give it a go myself. May keep editing it from time to time, but for the moment, I'm happy to upload it as is. The title, when put into Google Translate, comes out as 'the existence of glass', but a more appropriate one would be 'false existence' (when using 'in vitro' in a similar way to 'in vitro fertilisation', if that makes any more sense...!). Hope you like. :-)

At first he is miserable; he ignores Lucinda completely, pushes her away when she tries to comfort him (why she keeps trying, he can’t comprehend - hasn’t she got the message already?) and spends his long, drawn-out days sat by the one window in their room. He would call it a cell, but he knows that prison cells don’t have four-poster beds and en-suite bathrooms. There’s nothing he’s looking at in particular, just the city, grey some days, sun-drenched on others. He tries not to think about to whom the buildings could have belonged, but on those especially glorious occasions it’s hard not to acknowledge the pang of despair in his chest. His fiancée asks him what he’s thinking, but he never tells her. What he wants is to stop the King from ruining what he has, from losing the love of the people (because in hindsight, they would never have loved William’s puppet) and throwing away the family’s greatness; it’s not as if telling Lucinda would make that come true. 

Eventually, when it becomes evident that his father is no more merciful and Shiloh increasingly divided, Jack finally speaks to her. “Why are you still here?” 

Though he’s not looking her way, he understands that the pause before her answer is joy being reined in. She’s become more tentative since their excuse of a relationship began, a cautious response to his lack of attention to her. He wonders if he scares her. She’s probably too naïve to understand why he doesn’t speak to her, why it’s important that she stays by his side, and so he expects her answer to reflect that political innocence: ‘doing her duty’ perhaps, or ‘the King demanded it’. 

“I couldn’t let you go through this alone, regardless of what you’ve done to deserve it.” 

Initially, her presence had been like a knife to the gut. Now she’s twisting that knife, but what makes the pain harder to swallow is the fact that she’s doing it unknowingly. In that moment, Jack both hates and pities Lucinda Wolfsen. 

By this time she’s learnt not to ask him questions, and the times he does talk to her, not to drag it out. Slowly, the bitterness lessens, and the former heir to the throne becomes weary of wishing for death. The two of them build a fragile co-existence, sharing food and books and even the bed space, but one unspoken rule stands like a brick wall between them: no affection. Jack knows Lucinda has feelings for him, and she knows he won’t return them (but not why). Nevertheless, she doesn’t ask – it’s not her place to. 

By the fifth month of this, Jack feels he has to apologise. The conscience he thought his uncle had hacked off has grown back, and he can see the unhappiness in her eyes more clearly. She smiles as convincingly as he does – far more frequently too – and keeps away from the conditions of his imprisonment, even though he’s pretty sure it’s on her mind. “You shouldn’t be here,” he tells her, trying and failing to make it sound harsh. 

Lucinda shrugs. “Where would I be if I wasn’t?” 

“This is a waste of your time!” 

“It’s my time to choose how to waste.” The new-found wisdom she’s gained from imprisonment infuriates him. 

Along with each other’s company, the unfortunate couple receive regular visits from members of staff, who bring food and newspapers and books for Lucinda (never Jack; he doesn’t expect those luxuries to be granted him anyway). Every now and again a doctor comes, conducts horrendously personal interviews, and leaves with nothing new to report and the same expression on his face as when he entered. To Jack, it’s oddly satisfying – he should feel sorry for the poor sod who has to tell his father that no baby is on the way, but all he can picture is the King’s face at receiving such news. It’s one of the ways he entertains himself when Lucinda’s books look like trash. 

Something of a routine develops in their semi-existence inside the palace; they take turns in the bathroom, eat breakfast, read the paper or a book, have lunch, entertain themselves separately again, have dinner, get bored, use the bathroom, then sleep and repeat in the morning. Small talk would pass irregularly, only lasting any reasonable amount of time when Jack had something to complain about that she agreed with. Improve as it did, their relationship never progressed to the stage Jack’s father wanted it to; oh they tried once, but Jack, who was well-practised when it came to making out with women he felt nothing for, couldn’t move past getting topless. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal. 

_“Close your eyes, and dream of someone who’s dead.”_ He does. He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. It doesn’t work. 

Lucinda cries for the first time after this. A while ago, Jack would’ve scorned her for it, turned his back on her and scowled out of the window until she fell asleep – now he finds himself just lying next to her, unfeeling as he stares at the canopy and bluntly telling her she’s not to blame for his lack of activity. “Then what is it?” she asks through her sobs. When he turns away, face blank and mouth turned down at the corners, their old roles take a sudden reversal: she’s the one who pushes him away, who ignores his words and puts distance between them. After she stubbornly falls asleep in the chair, he musters up the decency to throw a blanket over her. 

Their second attempt a week later goes better; the problem this time is that a woman’s body is far too alien to him, an unfamiliar feel he can’t adjust to (can’t ever see himself adjusting to). As Lucinda pulls her underwear back on in silence, he blandly apologises again (and he doesn’t fully think he should – she was willing, he wasn’t) but she fixes him with a look of confused hurt, mingled with the ferocity of a woman scorned, and demands answers. 

“You take me to the royal events and introduce me to your parents. You show me off to the papers, tell them I’m your girlfriend, then announce our engagement to the world. Why, if you did all that, do you rebuke my feelings, my support, my body, and then claim it’s not my fault? If you don’t love me Jack, just say so.” There are no tears, and she doesn’t shout. 

“It isn’t your fault,” he mutters, picking up his shirt. 

“Stop saying that,” she pleads. He’s about to do up the buttons when the next question hits him: “Is there someone else?” 

He has no doubt that she saw the stilling of his hands, the way his whole body seems to lock in place for a moment as the forbidden name is whispered fleetingly in his mind’s ear. There was a time he’d learnt to suppress such a response, always wary of giving himself away. Oh, how imprisonment had dulled him; perhaps this is what his father wanted. Realising he’s taking too long in answering, that Lucinda’s watching him too closely to believe the ready lie (and she won’t take any bullshit tonight, he can tell), he swallows and nods. “There was.” 

“Was?” 

“They died.” 

He watches her demeanour change in the mirror, and it astounds him; even after all he’s done to her, all that’s happened to her because of him, her expression still changes from fury to sympathy (it’s clearly not pity – this girl isn’t so conceited as to try and disguise something like that). “Oh Jack,” she breathes, and the next thing he’s aware of is the feel of her hand on his shoulder. “Will you tell me about her?” 

“No.” He shrugs her off, the action familiar to both of them, and there’s only a hint of disappointment on her face. But really, what did she expect? Just because they talked occasionally, attempted to fuck a few times, did not mean they were at the sharing-and-caring stage, and he’s already divulged more than he ever intended. He thinks with that dismissal that neither of them will breach the subject again, but he’s wrong. Behind closed eyelids he sees himself making love to Lucinda Wolfsen as someone watches. It’s not the woman beneath him who says “I love you.” He blinks and finds himself being thrown onto the street, the stones wet and cold against his skin; looking over his shoulder he sees a familiar pair of eyes, beautiful even as they gaze at him with something close to disgust. Then they’re gone, and he’s in a bedroom. Standing up, he sees a body on the bed, with those eyes, now unseeing, throat and wrists covered in bright red – 

Jack wakes up confused – his vision is blurred, and he can still feel the dampness from the street on his face. His fiancée is asleep, her back to him. He searches for the person who had been watching them, but they’re alone. They’ve been alone for months now. They always will. And as reality catches up with him, Jack is horrified by the fact that he never properly mourned for who and what he lost. He’d done exactly as he told his sister to do, all for a crown that he would never have truly held himself; but, as he’d discovered not so long (a lifetime) ago, anything could be done in the dark. 

Lucinda sees how red his eyes are in the morning. Mercifully, she doesn’t say anything. 

The glorious days that made this existence easier to bear eventually disappear. When it’s not raining the city still manages to look damp, and for a week or so it snows. They can see families playing and enjoying the rare weather from the window, and Lucinda comments that she’d like to be out in the snow. Jack does too, but only to lose himself to the cold. He accidentally wonders how the palace would take it, whether or not David Shepherd would argue for a funeral, and at that name he shuts his thoughts off. Needing a distraction he picks up his fiancée’s book, proceeding to read the words without taking them in. He doesn’t stand by the window again until the ice melts. 

Ten months have passed when they receive an unexpected visit. Thomasina hasn’t changed a bit, and that’s the only reason he smiles when she glides in as if nothing has changed between them. “Thomasina! Please tell me you’ve come to inform us of the King’s death?” 

“I’m here at your sister’s request.” 

“My sister.” He scoffs. “It’s been almost a year. Why does she want something now and why from me?” 

“Because she did not know of your situation until recently.” Thomasina’s tone is as neutral as ever. It’s a small comfort to know she doesn’t hate him anymore. “The Princess has since been working on trying to find a ‘solution’.” 

Jack raises his eyebrows. “You mean she’s been sneaking around under my father’s nose?” 

“She is not currently in Gilboa.” 

He processes that. “She eloped with Shepherd?” No answer. He nods. “She was exiled.” 

Producing an envelope, Thomasina continues: “Michelle sent this to me in confidence. Neither the King nor the Queen have seen it.” She hands it to Lucinda, who takes it almost reverently. “I’ll return tomorrow to hear your decision.” There’s one last look between her and the Prince, and then she leaves, with as much warmth as her last exit from this room. 

With great restraint he lets her open the letter. She pulls out the folded paper, then hesitates. “Maybe we should read this together.” 

He briefly considers it. “You can read it out.” 

It obviously isn’t what she wanted to hear, but she complies. His sister’s letter reveals little of where she’s been these last months, only that it took her long enough to hear of his imprisonment following his surrender and of their father’s growing tyranny. Somehow she knows of his demands, and of Jack’s ‘issues’, and has apparently researched ways to keep both parties happy (in as much as they could be). There are two options: artificial insemination, or in vitro fertilisation. Michelle has outlined them both. They seem easy, relatively painless, but Jack doesn’t see how either of them could be done without his father’s knowledge. Lucinda’s concern is why it has to be done. 

The next day Thomasina returns, and they state their decision: IVF, because Jack knows that the only way he’ll truly be free is if he produces a son over a daughter, and this way they can make it just so. Thomasina explains that Lucinda will be taken to hospital under the pretence that she is unwell, but she will leave with a ‘donation sample’ from Jack to give to the doctors. She’ll return for bed-rest, and then once the embryos are ready she’ll go back for ‘a check-up’. In reality, she’ll undergo the necessary operations both times, and when the time is right it will be announced to Silas that she is pregnant. It sounds so easy that Jack is half-sure he’s dreaming. 

He makes his ‘donation’ alone, allowing himself the rare pleasure of digging up his true nature ( _“this mistake of character”_ ). For a moment his mind wavers over a particular face, but when that brings more guilt than pleasure he banishes it in favour of a meaningless, nameless one, a boy who’d been good with his hands. ‘First the worst, second the best’ – isn’t that what children say? Either way, it lets him finish the job, and once the high has subsided (replaced by a sense of remorse) he returns to his dejected fiancée. 

“Please tell me the truth.” He ignores her. “Are you still so hung up over this dead woman that you can’t –” 

“His name was Joseph.” 

Maybe she is smarter than he gave her credit for. He hears her get up and go to the bathroom, its door locking quietly behind her, and when she re-emerges some time later her make-up is perfect. The escort assigned to take her to the hospital arrives soon after, and she leaves without a backward glance. 

In the twenty-four hours that follow, Jack revels in the near-complete privacy he suddenly gains. He seeks the relief he felt after making his ‘donation’, lounges about on the bed rather than holding his post by that bloody window, and allows forbidden thoughts to control his emotions. When she returns, he sighs inwardly, and asks how it went. She answers him calmly enough, but her tone is flat and she won’t look him in the eye. After telling him when she’ll be gone again, she changes for bed and says no more. 

Their relationship has changed; the ‘no affection’ wall has thickened, allowing only for the most basic of questions and responses to pass between them. They no longer eat together; he doesn’t ask when he takes one of her books; they sleep back to back with room for a third body between them. She is summoned a few weeks later for her final operation, a suitable embryo having been chosen, and Jack savours the temporary privacy once more. Her face is blank when she’s brought back. 

“Well?” 

“It’s done.” Freedom is palpable now. 

The doctor who makes their regular check-ups finally takes good news to the King. The Prince is a little surprised he doesn’t come and see for himself, but when Lucinda is summoned to stand before him he figures his father still can’t stand the sight of him. So it’s a minor shock when Thomasina turns up to tell him that Lucinda is now under the Queen’s care, and that she will be until after the birth. Jack assumes that’s when he’ll be allowed back out, probably shipped off to some remote place nobody knows of where his father doesn’t have to bother with him anymore. The thought is oddly enticing – it could be an opportunity to forget about ever being a prince, a chance to reinvent himself and put family drama out of his life for good. Let Shiloh crumble beneath his father, let David fucking Shepherd step in to try and save it – if Jack is really going to be sent miles away from everything, he couldn’t give a damn. It’s not his city anymore. 

Eight months pass in a slow, steady rhythm. Thomasina appears again briefly to hand him a birthday message from Michelle. It’s short and to the point, and he wonders if she ever forgave him (a tiny part of him hopes she has). Privacy becomes solitude, and once or twice he muses over William’s fate, cursing his long-gone uncle for landing him in this situation. He reads in the newspapers that Andrew is making a good name for himself, and laughs at his cousin’s aptitude for self-preservation. Perhaps Andrew would make a good king, perhaps he’d be hated more than Jack, but there is no way the golden boy is just “rolling with the times” as he claims in one interview. His mother is still doing what she does best: putting on shows. He thinks in one picture he sees Lucinda, but the figure isn’t clear enough and there aren’t any names to indicate who’s who. He barely thinks of her again until she’s thrown back into his life – almost literally. 

He’s just finished reading today’s paper when the door is unlocked. A guard opens the door and half-drags, half-carries a sobbing Lucinda Wolfsen inside. He leaves her by the bed, disappearing as suddenly as he’d come, and locks the door behind him. Jack and Lucinda’s wall can’t rebuild itself quick enough before she’s clinging to him desperately; through her sobs she manages to choke out what had happened: she’d given birth to a boy a few days ago, and once the doctors had declared her healthy enough to leave the hospital she’d been removed. Their son had stayed. Silas had told her he wasn’t hers anymore, and had her taken back to the lavish substitute for a prison cell. 

The news didn’t surprise him – he’d expected it to go that way, and thought she had too. Seeing how truly broken his fiancée was, he held her close and let her cry. 

A week later the doctor diagnosed her with depression. She was given an array of pills against her wishes (the only wish she did have was denied), but Jack didn’t force her to take them. He watched for three weeks as she lay on the bed, rejecting food, wasting away, and he’d never felt angrier at his father. Lucinda never had to have suffered like this, but Silas had thrown her into imprisonment for his own personal gain. She was a tool to him – they both were – and now he had no further use for her. 

A little over a year and half after the key had been turned in the lock, Jack hears cheering in the streets. People are pouring out of their houses, waving flags and scarves and hats, hugging one another, leaning out of windows; and an hour or so later, the couple find out why. 

“King Silas is dead,” a stone-faced Thomasina announces. “You have both been summoned by the new King.” 

“And that is?” There are two names he has in mind. 

“David Shepherd.” 

Thomasina leads them down familiar hallways and corridors, each one surprisingly empty despite the clamour a new king should have caused. Jack, arm around Lucinda (who can hardly stand on her own), is understandably nervous. He hasn’t seen David since his failed coronation, and though he doesn’t expect the boy to have changed much he can’t help but wonder what his new fate will be. Nobody has told him how David became King, or what happened to his uncle and cousin, but he can’t find it in himself to care; he hopes, for Lucinda’s sake, that his son is safe. 

They are taken to the council room, in which there are just three people: David, of course, hair a little longer than Jack remembers but still smiling, still blatantly good; Michelle, just as radiant and looking more mature; and in her arms a baby. They turn as Thomasina leads them in. His sister beams, then approaches Lucinda, who stares at the tiny figure being carried towards her. There is silence, marred only by soft gurgles, as the baby is passed over, and as its young mother succumbs to nearly a month’s worth of tears unshed Jack can’t put a name on the emotion he’s feeling. Half-way to joy yet stuck on disbelief he watches as Michelle guides Lucinda over to the steps, an arm around her shoulders, so lost in the moment that he doesn’t hear David approach him. 

“Congratulations. He’s a beautiful baby.” Stunned, Jack just nods. “This may not be the best time,” David continues, “but I have some options for you.” 

He finds his voice. “Options?” 

“For your future.” There’s no response, so he lists them; “Option one: I reinstate you as Major Jack Benjamin with a full pardon, and you resume active military service. Option two: you take a position as a member of my council, either as a minister or military liaison. Option three: you and your family can start a new life in a place of your choosing.” 

To say he is overwhelmed is an understatement. He and David had never had the best of relationships – hell, his relationship with Lucinda was clearer – but here he was being presented with three paths that, in their own ways, appealed to him. Momentarily lost for words he listens as David says he can make the choice in his own time, then finally organises his thoughts and asks a question of his own. “What’ll happen to her?” He gestures towards Lucinda, still in Michelle’s embrace. 

“As your fiancée we’ll tell her what we just told you,” Thomasina says as David flounders, caught off-guard by the question. “Our priority will be to make sure she recovers from her ordeal and connects with her child, but afterwards she’ll be allowed to make her own decisions.” 

Jack nods, tells David he’ll consider his options, then goes to the steps. Michelle stands as he approaches, a small smile on her face. “It worked?” 

“Yes.” So she has forgiven him. “Thank you.” 

“Everything changes now,” she says, then stands on tiptoe to wrap her arms around his neck. “I’m glad you’re okay.” 

Automatically he returns the hug (the first they’ve shared in too long), then lets her go to David. He sits cautiously next to Lucinda, who has stopped crying, and properly looks at his son for the first time. He is tiny, encased in a blue baby suit that is slightly too big, eyes screwed shut, fists clenched as if he’s displeased about something. Jack doesn’t blame him. It’s odd (and unwelcome) to think that his own father once saw him like this, a miniature person, unshaped and undefined, totally dependent on everyone else. He is a father now. The thought creeps up on him like a gas cloud, and he swallows thickly. 

His fiancée (or was she, now that they probably didn’t have to marry?) glances up at him, the closest thing to happiness he’s seen on her face in weeks. “I think he needs a name,” she says, then looks up again with a tentative expression. “Do you want to call him Joseph?” 

Just when he thinks he can’t take any more surprises, she throws this one at him. He shakes his head, chokes out a “No,” and breathes deeply to get himself back on track. “Uh, no, that’s not… You don’t have to do that.” If anything, he owes her for putting up with all the shit of the last nineteen or so months. Besides, she probably cares more about this baby than he does, even with his newfound wonder. Letting her choose her son’s name is hardly a sacrifice. 

“I like Matthew.” He won’t argue that. 

The next few days seem surreal; they’re back in the palace, which gradually fills up with people in suits running left, right, centre, up the walls, down the stairs, and generally everywhere. They’re planning for a coronation – one that won’t be interrupted, they hope – and a wedding to follow that. Not Jack’s, but David and Michelle’s, the one thing that hasn’t surprised him of late. Michelle plans to help Lucinda bond with Matthew, and finally tells Jack that he’s an uncle to a little girl named Holly; by this point though, the former Prince has decided that all babies do is wail and shit themselves. He asks her where their mother is, to which David tells him she’s gone into mourning at a holiday home of the family’s with her nephew. They aren’t expected to return. 

“Have you made a decision yet?” David asks the day before his coronation. He’s making a brief visit – places to go and all that. 

Jack studies him, still trying to work out… David Shepherd. “Why are you doing this?” 

“Because you surrendered.” He says it as if it’s really that simple. “You’re a good man, Jack, despite what people say. What you did to your father, that wasn’t all you – that was William Cross, and I know that you care for this city and the wellbeing of its people. If not, then you care for the soldiers at the very least. And besides, you know a little of how to run a city, and I’d listen to your opinion.” 

He scoffs. “My opinion?” 

“Yes.” 

There’s no swaying him on that. With a sigh, Jack gives him an answer. David nods, and promises to see it through. 

One week after the coronation, at the new King’s wedding, Jack makes his second public appearance since imprisonment. Luckily, the press isn’t interested in him or Lucinda (just Lucinda now), and he sticks to the back of the crowd. He’s already been seen by everyone who used to know him but they steer clear, and he wonders what they’ve been told. The bar calls to him soon enough, and the whiskey tastes better than it ever has. Gets to work quicker, too, if the morning after is anything to go by. Thomasina, true to form, is there to wake him up and remind him that today is the day he’s due to leave, and that once he’s ready the King would like to speak to him in private. 

“Are you ready?” David asks. They’re in the council room again, bathed in sunshine that Jack’s father would have taken as a sign of some sorts. Jack’s given up on God. 

He nods in response. “I am, sir.” 

“There’s no need for that. Not here.” 

Does he still consider them friends? Jack can’t tell. “Is there a reason I’m here?” 

David smiles. “I just wanted to wish you good luck. I know this isn’t going to be easy for you, but Michelle and I are here to help if you ever need it.” 

The horrible thing is: he’s totally sincere. Jack doesn’t know whether to feel humbled or sickened, but can’t ignore the fact that David has done everything in his power to bring him back out of obscurity – and, even though he’s not a prince anymore, Jack is grateful for that. “Thank you.” 

The King grins, clapping him on the shoulder. “It’s good to have you back Major Benjamin. I wish you and your men all the best.” 

Ten minutes later, Jack stops before getting in the car, and turns to cast one final look at the place he’s called home for as long as he can remember. His life there seems almost artificial now, some fairy tale or holy story gone wrong, but now he’s in control – no Silas, no William, no God. In the eyes of Jack Benjamin, that can only be a good thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me just say, I really wanted to make Jack stick with Lucinda and little Matthew, but it just felt OOC. The ending may seem a little rushed (because it sort of is) but I may remedy that - I was just worried it was dragging on a bit... Anyways, thanks for reading - the second part of the series is in the works... ;-) xx


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